


Choke

by SenkoWakimarin



Series: Author's Recommendations [20]
Category: Cable (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Punisher (Comics)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Choking, Emetophilia, M/M, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 22:08:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18600355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Frank always sees things through.





	Choke

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Tougher Than The Rest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18590989) by [inbox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/pseuds/inbox). 



> Y'all can blame [inbox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox) for giving me the brainworms. 
> 
> Please, for the love of god, read the tags.

A different safe house, a different lead in. It’s all different, really; Frank’s head is ringing with the differences, with the shaky post-fight crash, relief and rage all twisted up and ugly now that he’s certain neither of them are really hurt.

Not in any lasting way. Not in any way that matters.

They’ve both already got scars, sure. Scars all over, a life of close calls and pain writ all over the skin. Probably shouldn’t be a sexy thing, but Cable sitting on the chair, shirtless and leaning back to counter the uneven set of the chair’s legs, looks good. Better than good; he's got his head tipped back, arms dropped at his sides, looking half asleep with his eyes closed, fingers of his metal hand almost touching the first aid kit on the floor next to him. The wound on his chest is neatly bandaged, cleaned by Frank’s own steady hand when Cable’s own had fumbled with the ugly shard of metal shrapnel.

Frank tells himself not to stare, but Christ if he doesn’t want to crawl between those spread thighs, fish out that big cock, and stopper up his throat. He feels parched, and that might just about quench his thirst, choking down that dick.

He’s a jumble of nerves and emotional fallout and blind dumb hunger, desperate for something, anything, to block out all the rest, to pin him and fill him and scour out the rest of the world and its ugly, awful, endless war. It’s not really a surprise that he flinches when Cable says suddenly, “Fuck, but you’re loud.”

Face colouring, Frank makes himself look away, look at anything else. His mouth tastes like blood. “Sorry,” he says, and he means it. This isn’t the time or place.

Cable shifts his legs apart, boots scuffing across cheap kitchen tile, and when Frank dares look at him again, he’s watching Frank with half-lidded eyes and the faintest hint of a smile. His flesh-and-blood hand has migrated to rest atop his stomach, covering the bandage. With his brows lofted like that, it’s an invitation, maybe a challenge.

Not the time or place, but if he wants, if he dares…

Kneeling always hurts anymore, even when he goes down slow and careful. This would be a little easier on the cheap carpet of the tiny sitting room. Hell, if he’d been smart, even folding the ratty towel he’d used to mop away the blood and sweat from Cable’s stomach would have been a little comfort. But he wasn’t smart, hadn’t thought of it, another fuckup to add to the day’s tally. At least this time it wasn’t going to result in an injury for Cable.

The fly pops open neatly, no struggle, and he’s a little surprised by how hard Cable already is, as he starts working him free of his shorts. Not fully erect but decently chubbed, hot and pleasant in Frank’s grip. He keeps his fist around the length, eager to wrap his lips around the head, sucking and sweeping his tongue along the swell of the crown just to feel it thicken and twitch in his grip.

Big metal fingers slide through his hair, the heel of that hand pushing against his brow. Not back but up, so he can see Cable’s face, the lazy pleasure built like heat in his gaze. “You look good like that,” he says, low and rumbling, not quite a growl. The hand not wrapped around that thick cock is pressed to Cable’s thigh, and he can feel it tense, as if Cable’s putting effort into not just rocking up into his mouth.

With some effort, he makes his grip relax, swallowing around his mouthful and pressing both hands to either thigh, feeling the power there, holding them apart but not down because part of him, oh, part of him wants that, wants the fingers in his hair to clench and hold, strong thighs to flex and lift those hips up, forcing him to take, claiming, fucking…

Cable makes a weak, eager sound, shifting the hand on his brow, sliding it back. He doesn’t pull on Frank’s hair, but he does nudge the back of his head, encouraging him to take more into his mouth. What he’s imagining is a punishment but what he’s being given feels like a reward, and the contrast has him so hard it aches.

His knuckles are bruised and sore, and he’s sporting a new black eye, bruise painting itself all the way down to his cheekbone.  Otherwise, he’s unharmed, and that’s bothering him, bothering him because Cable did get hurt, not terribly bad, but bad enough, shrapnel cuts and a sharp blade of it lodged in the meat of his chest. Damage taken because he’d been distracted covering Frank. Frank can’t undo that, can’t fix it, but he’s more than willing to put effort into making up for it, and maybe that’s why he’s so eager to curl down further, balance held on Cable’s thighs as he sucks him down and down.

Deep throating isn’t exactly a trick he’s willing to whip out for a Grindr hookup. He doesn’t really care for sucking dick through a condom, and he’s not quite dumb enough to fuck strangers he meets on the internet bareback.

So it’s been a while, and enthusiasm can only help so much. In fact, there’s a good chance that, in this, it’s working against him.

He gags the first time he tries to take Cable past his soft palate, tears springing to his eyes. His body telling him it’s too much, too fast, telling him to slow down; a warning he pointedly ignores. Because he wants, wants the pain of his throat fucked raw, wants more of the gasping, eager noises Cable’s making. Wants to be good.

It feels good, is the thing. The stretch, the ache of forcing his throat open, even the warning roil of his guts. He tries to swallow, reflex against the surge of nausea that bolts through him, and that must do something for Cable because the hand on the back of his head tightens, pushes him a little more, and he’s so close, so close to having his nose buried in that coarse silver hair. He stomach heaves and he fights it, clamps his fingers hard against Cables thighs and tries one more time to swallow and sink down that last little bit.

The flood of saliva, helpful to this point, is suddenly too much, the taste of blood and warm flesh switching from pleasant to overwhelming, the spike of pain in his head too sharp. The pressure of Cable’s palm is a lot, too much, holding him down just like he wanted except he can feel the flutter of warning, another bit of gagging, and then it’s not just cock he’s choking on.

He hears Cable curse, feels a surge of concern like static across his consciousness,  but he can’t really think of anything except the desperate need to pull off, shuffling back and twisting to the side, and empty his stomach on the shitty floor tiles. There wasn’t much in him to lose; he eats light before a big job, but the cramping, shuddering contractions don’t really care about what’s there. He stays doubled over, idly relieved that they’d staying on the hard tiles after all as strings of drool join the vomit on the floor.

Cable’s hand between his shoulders is warm and gentle, and the shame and embarrassment hits him like a freight train, so he has to close his eyes and grit his teeth. He fucked up, he fucked the whole damn thing up, what the hell is wrong with him that he can’t even suck a fucking _dick_ correctly --

_Hey_

The voice in his head is calming, grounding. It cuts through the overwhelming self loathing, so when Cable nudges his shoulder he takes a shuddering breath and sits back on his heels.

_Look at me_

Pleasant, gentle, unbothered. Frank’s not certain is the sense of calm is really his own, or if it’s projected from Cable, but either way it doesn’t much matter. It beats the anxious misery that had been climbing up his throat like a second wave of vomit, nips the panic in the bud. He is aware of some lingering sense of shame, the way he’s aware that there’s drool and probably worse on his chin.

Exhaling, he obeys, an apology on his tongue that dies when Cable brings the ratty towel, stained already with blood from mopping up the blood they’d both come here covered in, wiping away the slick of vomit and drool off his lips and chin.

When he sits back, dropping the cloth on the table, it’s impossible for Frank not to notice that Cable is still hard. His dick is flushed and slick, jutting from his opened jeans, and Frank feels a tightness in his gut again, arousal, not nausea. Cable isn’t disgusted, isn’t even turned off, and when he glances back at his face, Cable is watching him with interest.

Frank doesn’t ask and Cable doesn’t say anything, not until Frank is settled back between his knees. Then he puts his hand -- flesh, this time -- against the back of Frank’s head, nudging him down. “Take your time,” he says, and Frank doesn’t know if it’s meant as a tease or just honest advice. “No rush.”

Yeah, good advice. He tries to go slower, but there’s something, something about the stretch of his lips and the warm weight against his tongue, the way Cable’s gentle hand starts to nudge a little firmer, the gentle intrusion of Cable’s mind against his going staticy, as erratic as the big guy’s breathing when Frank gags again.

He _likes_ it. He likes that it’s more than Frank can really handle, he likes the way Frank got so eager it literally made him puke trying to take it too fast. He likes Frank coming right back, sucking his own sick off his cock and still trying to take him to the root.

 _Sick bastard_ , he thinks, not exactly an accusation, and Cable utters this low, pleased sound. Frank’s dick, mostly gone soft when he’d lost his lunch, starts to thicken again. His stomach lurches again, but this time he manages, pulling back to suck slow and tight along the length, swallowing when his throat is empty again. It hurts a little, but he’s more than happy to sink back down, again and again, bobbing in a half-assed rhythm.

The wet, filthy sound is all he can hear, that and Cable’s eager gasps and soft groans, but he can feel, in the twitch of Cable’s hips and the tension of his hand in Frank’s hair, that he’s close. A second or so after that realization, Cable pulls a little at the scant grip he can get on Frank’s hair.

_Gonna come_

Frank’s not even sure if it’s really words in his head or just the idea, wordless and desperate as the breathing he can hear out loud, and he finds himself resisting the attempt to pull him off. Whatever you want, that’s what Cable had said last time; _You can do whatever you want to me next time_ , and this is what Frank wants, what he’s choked and gagged and _puked_ to get.

The noise Cable makes at that thought is really something, Frank files it away for a lonely night even as he finds himself held still, caught, pinned just as he’d wanted in the beginning, so he’s not able to bob his head, it’s just Cable working his hips, shallow, eager thrusts. Frank’s lips feel numb, tingling and warm with the friction.

When he comes, Cable says something, a curse or something, Frank’s sure, and all Frank can do is work his tongue against the underside of his shaft, sucking and swallowing until he’s dizzy, dazed by the lack of air. It’s just the edge of too much when Cable eases his grip, manhandling Frank to sit back, giving him space, giving them both space and air and time to breathe.

He’s still hard in his jeans, almost painfully so, but he just kneels there, breathing, feeling his sore throat and swollen lips, the ache in his head almost fully gone. His mouth feels slick and coated, the musky, salty taste thick on his tongue, cloying and utterly overwhelming the traces of blood and bile.

Whether that’s an improvement or not, he can’t honestly say, but getting off his knees is, ultimately, a relief.

He stares at the pool of watery puke in distaste and shoves the sense of disgust away. He’s dealt with way worse, and it needs to get cleaned up. This place is a dump, but it doesn’t need dried puke to tie together the flophouse vibe.

Cable grabs him by the wrist and drags him back in close. He doesn’t exactly struggle, but he feels like the token huff is at the very least required. Doesn’t stop the way his hips twitch forward when Cable starts palming over his cock. The bandage on his chest is leaking through with red, and his pulse against Frank’s back is heavy and a little fast, eager. His grip through Frank’s jeans is tight and hot, and Frank breathes sharply through his nose. Cable doesn’t seem in much of a rush to even the playing field, but that’s okay.

Frank likes the long game too.

“Not so fast, Captain Castle. Job's not finished yet.”


End file.
